I Ignite
by Polly Lynn
Summary: "It's her birthday and she's shivering in the street. Stalking back and forth doing damage control. The fury is practically rolling off her and she's going to kill him." A two-chapter one-shot. A two-shot? Glancing spoilers for Probable Cause and Swan Song. Chapter 1 is T-ish; Chapter 2 is M
1. Chapter 1

Title: I Ignite

WC: ~3200

Spoilers: Set on Kate's birthday this year. Glancing spoilers for Probable Cause and Swan Song.

A/N: Had a cold and had to cancel Thanksgiving plans. Totally should have been grading, but the idea for this hopped into my brain.

* * *

She's going to kill him. That much is clear.

He just wanted to do something nice for her birthday. Something fun.

It's been a rough couple of weeks for them. Tyson. The near miss with Gates. Him being clingy and moody and an idiot. Her being rigid and defensive. Well-worn patterns they apparently haven't quite broken out of. It's been rough.

He just wanted to do something nice and now she's shivering in the street in front of her apartment building. On her birthday. She's squeezing between the bumpers of the squad car and the fire engine that have pulled up at melodramatic angles, and was that really necessary? Like there are hostages? Like building is actually in flames?

It's her birthday and she's shivering in the street. Stalking back and forth doing damage control. The fury is practically rolling off her and she's going to kill him.

_At least it's not raining_.

It's not the worst opening line. But there's a lot of stiff competition for the worst opening line right now.

_Nothing but competition, _Castle thinks as he hunches further into his coat.

It's probably better for his long-term survival than any of the other thoughts darting through his mind. Certainly better than anything along the lines of how gorgeous she is with the rolling lights painting her face red and white and red again. That will definitely get him killed, no matter how true it is.

_Totally true_, he thinks and does not grin. He is definitely not grinning. Not only would grinning be grossly inappropriate under the circumstances, it would definitely hasten his untimely death at her hands.

He winces as he watches Beckett take a step toward the unsuspecting uniform.

Castle makes a mental note to get his name. To send the guy something. Some kind of _Sorry You Got Caught In My Giant Fuck-Up Field _token. Maybe he'd like to borrow the Ferrari. Maybe he'll leave him the Ferrari in his will.

He looks like a grown man—a hulking blue collar type with a buzz cut and a neck that seems to be MIA. But Castle swears he can see the guy getting younger, a long-gone spindle-legged, gawky teenager breaking through the surface and reclaiming his body as Beckett advances on him, nothing but the length of her index finger separating them at sternum level. She hasn't actually poked him yet, but it's coming.

_And there it is._ _Ow. _Castle winces again. The guy must have done something to deserve that. _No Ferrari for him._

She fakes him out a second time. Jabs her index finger at him and stops a millimeter short of his sternum.

Castle is still not grinning, even though that's kind of awesome when she's doing it to someone else.

The no-neck flinches and backpedals furiously. He slips behind the wheel of his car and keeps his head down as he scribbles away on his clipboard. Castle peers through the window and makes some mental notes. He needs another meathead or two for the next book.

But then Beckett is on the move again and there's her landlord. And now Castle really isn't grinning. No worries about that anymore, because he sees it. She draws her coat tighter around her and he sees the badass front waver for just a second and he just wants to get her out of there. Let her kill him. Now or later, what does it matter? He just wishes he could get her the hell out of there.

Her landlord. _Shit_. He hadn't even thought of that. He's vaguely aware that there was some—discussion—of the fact that her last apartment got blown up when she was looking for this one and . . . _shit._

She may not have to kill him at all. If he's lucky the ground will just open up and swallow him. Put him out of his misery. But he's not lucky. Not today, so she'll probably have to go through the trouble herself.

The sound of tromping feet draws his attention away from the scene unfolding by the squad car. Two—no three—fully geared fire fighters make their way out of the lobby. He thinks that's the last of them.

That has to be the last of them, right? It was a really small fire, after all. More smoke than anything. He suspects some manufactured drama. Police–Fire posturing because that's what they do. The city's finest just can't resist sticking it to one another when they can and that's all this is. There can't be any real damage. Right?

_Oh, God, she is going to _kill _him. _

He turns back to her and the landlord is just walking away. He's shaking his head and looking a little dazed. Like the conversation didn't go how he thought it would.

_It never does, _Castle thinks and a little of that urge to grin seeps back in, because she's standing a little taller. She's still pissed. She's still going to kill him. But she's standing a little taller.

The fire chief approaches and he's smirking. For someone whose job involves skirting the edge of death on a daily basis, he has lousy instincts.

Beckett's face might as well be made of stone. _Ridiculously, outrageously beautiful stone. _Castle's not grinning again. Most sincerely not grinning.

She's raining clipped monosyllables down on the chief and the smirk is gone. It's been less than 10 seconds and she's reduced him to downcast eyes and drooping shoulders and Castle would swear the man is just this side of sullenly scuffing the sidewalk with his toe. Less than 10 seconds and that's what she's reduced him to.

It's incredibly hot. And that's the kind of stray thought that will get him killed. Killed sooner. Because she _is_ going to kill him.

Beckett's eyes flick toward him for a half a second like she knows what he's thinking. Like she knows and she just wants to underscore the point. She _is_ going to kill him.

He deserves it. Sort of deserves it. He was just trying to do something nice and he didn't actually _start_ the fire. Technically she did, but he doesn't think he'll get a chance to make that argument. Not before she kills him.

The chief is done with her. Or she's done with him. He's still talking, but Beckett's putting her her back to him. With a sharp, dismissive gesture, she turns on her heel and crosses the street.

The wind catches the heavy corner of her trench coat and lifts it. Her hand is there, lightning fast, and she pins it back against her thigh.

Lightning fast, but not quite fast enough.

Castle _is _grinning now. Grinning like there's no tomorrow. Of course there _is _no tomorrow for him, because she's going to kill him. But he's still grinning.

She stares him dead in the eye and that ought to do it, but it doesn't. One eyebrow lifts without his permission and he's still grinning.

_Not quite fast enough. _

She's going to kill him. She's going to kill him and he'll die happy.

Because Kate Beckett is naked under that trench coat.

* * *

She's going to kill him. Just as soon as she clears this ridiculous—_ridiculous_—scene, she's going to kill him.

It's number two on her list: _Kill Castle_.

But not until she deals with this idiot who seems to think that being first on the scene gives him Dukes of Hazzard parking privileges. It's not someone she knows.

Of course it's not. It's her fucking birthday, her apartment is on fire, and her badge is . . . elsewhere . . . so of course it couldn't be one of the four dozen people from the first precinct she knows by name. _Of course not_.

She gives the belt of her coat a vicious tug and steps off the curb. Makes a point of being right there when he unfolds himself from the driver's seat. He's a head taller than her, even in _these _heels, and he seems to think that means something. He starts off by calling her "Miss," and it pretty much goes downhill from there.

It goes downhill from there, but at least it's over quickly. Metz or Mertz or whatever the hell his name is doesn't have much more going for him than his bulk, so it's over quickly. Five minutes and he has her statement, some food for thought about what, exactly, is and is not appropriate in a professional interview, and another story for the Ballbuster Beckett files. But she's one step closer to killing Castle.

Castle, who seems to think he's being subtle. Castle, who is hunched against a newspaper box on the far side of the street. Castle who is trying to make himself as small as possible. Like that helps when he's stealing looks at her every two seconds. When he's looking at her like she's a miracle instead of the hot mess she is.

She's still going to kill him, but she might have other plans for him first.

She sighs and shoves her hands into her pockets, then thinks better of it. She's freezing, but the situation calls for vigilance. And for that, she has to kill him. Eventually.

It's not even his fault. Well, of course it's his fault. That . . . _thing _was his fault_. _But it's not all his fault. Her . . . immediate problem is not _directly _his fault.

It's just her luck. Her dumb fucking luck and she should've known better.

He's trying. They're both trying and it's been a struggle lately. The fierce, desperate need for closeness after Tyson. His and hers and his again.

And then that wake-up call with that stupid fucking documentary. She's not giving him up. She's not giving anything up and they have to be smart about this. They have to be careful. And what are the odds of that? Smart and careful are the very last two things on her mind when he's around.

_Obviously, _she thinks as she squeezes between the engine and the badly parked black-and-white. She scrapes a bare knee on the bumper and wants to kick it. Wants to kick something. Wants to kick him, however unfair that is.

It's pretty unfair. It's her birthday and he was just trying to salvage it. Trying to pull something from the ruins of a day that had gone from bad to worse in a hurry.

So was she and look where that got her.

She steals another peek at him, and for once he's not staring at her. He's staring daggers through the squad's window. He's taking notes. She can tell by the way his jaw is working that he's dreaming up a perfectly devastating set of adjectives for this jackass. She might have to put off killing him for a little while. She wants to see it in print.

She hears her name and jerks around. No, not her name. _Miss Beckett_. Again. She's about to share her feelings on it when all the air goes out of her. It's her landlord. _Shit. _

She slams into a wall of memories. She's standing in the street on a bright spring day. The wind whips up around her and pastes a scrap of paper against her calf. It's hers. It was hers. Just a piece of junkmail, singed and tattered, but she sees the last five letters of her name and the assurance that she may already be a winner and then he's screaming at her. The owner of the building is screaming at her. She takes one last look down at the scorched, ragged pile at her feet and walks away. She walks away, because it's too fucking absurd.

She's not up for a repeat in the here and now. _So_ not up for it. Fortunately, the sour-faced little man makes a mistake right away. He reminds her of his "reservations" about renting to her. She pulls out her phone and calls up a string of unanswered emails. Then a list of recent calls to him, also unanswered. She tells him she's not _necessarily_ interested in asking the officer to amend his report to detail exactly _why_ she needed a space heater, unless he insists. Unless he's interested in exploring how this could have happened.

As if on cue, a string of FDNY traipse by. It's the perfect punctuation. The landlord blinks a couple of times like he's not sure where he is or why. He mumbles something about giving him 24 hours to get a cleaning crew in there and slinks away.

The fire chief doesn't give her a minute to recover. She doesn't need it. She is so _done_ with this.

The chief knows she's a cop. He knows what started the fire. He knows "who she is" and Beckett does not give a _shit_ what he knows and doesn't know. He tries to bait her. Subtle digs about good PR and how it's a great idea for an NYPD fundraiser.

She asks him exactly three questions: Can she go in and retrieve some personal effects, when will the place be safe for occupancy, and whether or not he's in the habit of harassing citizens who've just suffered loss of property. He stammers _no_ twice and decides to take one last crack at her about the losses she's suffered.

She cuts him off. Lets her eyes flick down to his name plate and makes a point of addressing him by it as she turns on her heel and stalks away.

Just then the wind whips up. Just then she lifts her foot to step up on to the opposite curb. Just then her trench coat peels back and for a tenth of a second exposes way too much of her thigh.

She slaps her hand over it and looks around. The chief is still staring at his shoes. Metz or Mertz or whoever the hell he is still staring at his clipboard.

And Castle is staring at her.

* * *

She's not exactly sure how he got there, but he seems to be standing next to her. Right, immediately next to her. So she should probably say something. That's probably safest.

He beats her to it.

"Is she . . .?" Castle gestures vaguely toward the open window a couple floors up. The smoke has cleared up. Mostly cleared up, save the occasional wisp when the wind kicks in again.

"She's dead, Castle. Lucky for you, she's dead." She gives him a hard stare, because, really, what the hell else is she going to do at this point? He knows and this is going to be _impossible _from here on out. _He knows._

"Oh." He looks genuinely mournful for a second, but it doesn't last. How could it? He knows.

She tells herself she's not blushing. She is absolutely not blushing.

"Everything finished here?" His tone is surprisingly even, considering.

The urge to kick him returns. She nods.

"Come on." He closes his fingers around her elbow. Stays arm's length away, but doesn't let go. Totally professional so long as no one catches the look he's giving her.

The look he's giving her is decidedly unprofessional and she is _not _blushing.

"Where are we going?" She hates the sound of her voice. Petulant. Worse than that. Breathy.

"My place." He's dragging her along and she can't exactly match his stride at the moment.

"Are you sure it's not on fire?" It's mean. She knows it's mean but he _knows_ and she needs to get this back under control.

He just snorts. "I wouldn't put money on it today, but my mother didn't mention it when I asked her to clear out."

"Castle!" Her voice is like a whip and he stops instantly. "My car is that way."

She gestures to the other end of the block and he rounds on her suddenly. Puts her body between his and the still-busy scene in front of her apartment.

His fingers slide down her sleeve and find skin. They close around her wrist and he works his thumb back and forth over her palm.

He's still arm's length away, but he feels closer. _Much _closer. His face is mostly in shadow. Just a sliver of streetlight reflecting off wide, wide pupils. He grabs a breath. Struggles with it and leans in. Just barely. They're still in plain sight.

"Do you want to take your car?"

It's an absolutely mundane question. Absolutely mundane, and she is this close to having her way with him up against the nearest wall. He's using The Voice. He's using it for evil. And when did he even figure out that he _has _The Voice? That it has this effect on her.

"Um . . ." It seems to be the only sound she can make.

"Because . . ." He drags it out. "I thought we'd grab a cab. But if you want to drive, Beckett, I can work with that."

She is definitely going to have to kill him later. This is officially out of hand.

"Cab," she barks it at him, but he just smiles and lets go of her wrist with one final stroke of his thumb. And then they're off again.

They hit Hudson and it's a damned miracle, because someone is just vacating a cab. Castle jogs ahead and hangs on to the back door before the cabbie gets any ideas. He holds it open for her and just stands there when she settles herself on the seat nearest him.

"Castle?"

"Curbside boarding, Beckett," he says innocently, and it's almost enough to make her re-prioritize her to do list.

Almost. But she is _not_ having sex in the back of a fucking cab on her birthday just so she can kill him that much sooner.

She slides over and moves to slap his hand away as he reaches for her thigh, but he's faster. For once he's faster. His palm coasts up and up and up. He lets out the barest hint of a groan as his fingers meet lace at her hip. His other hand skims over her cheek and his fingers find purchase in her hair.

He kisses her once.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

He pulls back. Settles her trench coat demurely over her knees. Keeps his hands to himself.

She blinks in surprise. Then in annoyance. _What the hell is he playing at?_

"Sorry for what?" she asks as her eyes narrow.

He laughs shortly and gives her a sideways glance. Rueful. A little sheepish. And a little not. She really is going to have to kill him.

"Can we just leave it at sorry for now? I just want to get you . . . home." His voice breaks a little on the last word and his eyes drift helplessly to her bare legs.

_And that's more like it,_ she thinks. She keeps her eyes on him as she crosses one leg over the other. Lets the coat fall open just enough to make his eyes widen and his shoulders hitch.

"Sorry'll do for now." _That's more like it._


	2. Chapter 2

Title: I Ignite

WC: ~4500

Rating: M (See? Surprise porn in chapter 2.)

Summary: It's her birthday and she's shivering in the street. Stalking back and forth doing damage control. The fury is practically rolling off her and she's going to kill him.

Spoilers: Set on Kate's birthday this year. Glancing spoilers for Probable Cause and Swan Song.

A/N: As promised, chapter 2. Just thought this was a bit long to post as a single chapter and the second half needed some polishing. Thanks so much for taking this little ride with me. In case you're curious, burning things down is apparently this thing I do. In two different songs, I started out from very pleasant happy memories only to find that I then burned the situation down. So Caskett should not take it personally. I love them and want them to be happy. And naked. And not actually on fire. Just kind of fire adjacent.

* * *

It's simultaneously the longest elevator ride of his life and the shortest. The longest because her tongue is doing these insane things to his ear and she has about 3000% of his buttons undone. The shortest because this knot in the belt of her trench coat is like the goddamned Navajo Windtalker of knots and he needs more _time._

The wall panel chimes softly and she jerks back from him like she's on a string. He just manages to bite back a petulant _No! _Just manages. She gives him a smug look anyway. Like she knows.

The doors glide open and she peeks left, then right.

Then she comes for him.

They're stumbling down the hallway being the very opposite of quiet, but keeping their hands or anything else off each other is not an option at this point.

It's a joint effort getting the key in the lock. Getting the key to turn. Working the door handle.

It's a joint effort and it takes them approximately 50 times longer than normal because she's pulling at his shirt tails like she's holding a grudge and he's had an epiphany about buttons and their complete independence of that fucking belt.

They finally make it inside. The door slips closed just as a few distinctly annoyed voices begin to drift down the hallway.

He's not sure when she got his shirt off—he's not even sure when she got his _coat_ off—but both seem to be on the floor. He's still working on her buttons, but the damned trench coat is double breasted and it's hard to work the inside row backwards and he keeps getting distracted by skin and lace and satin and more skin.

He hears some kind of annoyed, high-pitched whine and only realizes it's him when he feels her laughing against his neck.

"Problem, Castle?" She gives him a wicked grin as she jerks his belt free in one sinuous motion.

_Show off. _

He gapes at her a minute, trying to remember how talking works. He thinks that there's air and tongues involved, but that doesn't sound right inside of his head or out. It just seems so unlikely. He gives it a try anyway.

"Belt! What the hell is up with this fucking belt!" He tugs helplessly at the ends of it.

She laughs again and loosens his hands. She takes a step back and then another. She works the knot free in two seconds. Pauses for dramatic effect and lets the coat fall from her shoulders.

It's a black balconette bra. Matte satin sweeping wide on her shoulders and under her breasts with an inch-high drape of sheer fabric just barely resting along the tops. A matching strip of fabric hugs her hips, sheer and shimmering by turns and not much wider.

His mouth goes dry and he can't move. He has a giddy, disjointed series of thoughts all loosely connected to the idea that he's a grown man who has seen her naked on numerous occasions so he should probably be playing this a lot cooler than he is. But he can't move any part of him.

It goes on too long. It goes on a second too long and he sees the barest flicker of uncertainty behind her eyes. The breath rushes back into him.

He tips his head down and takes a step toward her. She gives him a wary look, but stands her ground.

"Kate Beckett." He wraps a hand around one arm, then the other. Takes another step toward her and forces her a step back this time. One step. Another step. "Katherine Beckett."

"What?" She probably means it to sound defiant, but there's no breath under it. No breath at all.

"Katherine Beckett," he repeats and there's another two steps and another two.

He lowers his head. His mouth hovers over her left breast. Hovers but doesn't land. He waits until she shivers, then just barely brushes his lips over her skin.

"You . . ." He stops. Nuzzles the top of her breast through the sheer fabric. Just touches the tip of his tongue to her nipple.

"I?" She's moving them backward now. Taking him with her.

"You. Have been wearing. Sexy. Matching. Underwear. All. Day." He punctuates each word with a kiss on bare skin. Another flick of his tongue through the fabric.

She stumbles and he recovers.

Five quick steps back and he has her against the shelves that form one side of the office doorway. His tongue sweeps up the length of her neck.

"Where are your clothes, Kate?" He asks it conversationally, his tone completely at odds with the way he's marking her skin. "Where did your clothes go?"

"Car," she groans against him as his teeth close around her nipple. "Wanted . . . wanted to surprise you."

He lets out a strangled laugh as she presses closer. "Almost surprised everyone."

She bites him for that and he can't just let her get away with it. He lets himself fall against her. Lets his hips pin hers to the bookcase and enjoys the way it undoes her. She gasps and goes limp. She's undone, but not for long.

"You're still wearing _pants_." The words rush out of her suddenly, and judging from the red hot drag of her fingernails over his hips, this is not a welcome realization.

"Sorry." He hisses against her shoulder and palms her breast roughly. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, Castle," she nips at his ear. "Help."

He nods heavily. Tries to make sense of what he's agreeing to, but she's writhing against him and it's all a little hard to keep track of.

His head dips lower and he's delighted to find that his fingers, of their own volition, have peeled back that tantalizing fabric. His head dips lower still and he curls his tongue over her nipple. Closes his lips around it and sucks none too gently.

His only warning is a noise. Not a noise. Lack of noise. Because she has been providing some pretty enthusiastic nonverbal commentary up to this point, and then there's _nothing. _

She spins them off the bookshelves and through the doorway into the office and now _he's_ moving backwards and this is hardly fair because she's shoving his pants off his hips and he offers up a prayer of silent thanks when his knees hit the bed and there are no casualties.

Her lips are everywhere and her teeth aren't far behind and that was his nipple and dear _god_ she's saying something. There are words coming out of her mouth, but she has her hand wrapped around him and the world is a little white and fuzzy around the edges right now.

"Shoes." She must realize that he can't cooperate under these circumstances, because dials things back a little. A very, very little bit. She drags both hands up his sides and now it's a chant in his ear. "Shoes, shoes, shoes. Get rid of your fucking shoes, Castle."

Yes. Shoes. _Yes_. He can do that. He kicks awkwardly at his own ankles a few times, then arches his hips off the bed to get better leverage and she lets out this _sound_ and he cannot get her underneath him fast enough.

He finds some mystical reserve of focus and coordination. He manages not only to shed his remaining clothes but to work his arm around his waist and flip her to the mattress.

She goes still in shock or something like it. He doesn't blame her. It's not every day that he gets the drop on a very determined Kate Beckett. He's not about to waste the advantage.

He ducks his head and kisses her softly. She resists at first. Twists beneath him and digs her fingers into his hips. Slides her tongue into his mouth and moans and that is very nearly the end of his master plan.

He pulls back and kisses the tip of her nose. It's a little desperate, but she has this thing. She can't help looking when he does it. She can't help it now. Her eyes flutter open and he dives in again. Plants one kiss and another and another and her eyes are crossing and she's the most adorable thing he's ever seen.

"Castle!" There's a warning there. More than a warning and he remembers that she's going to kill him.

But not right now.

He kisses her lips again and she's following now. Slowing. Timing her breaths to his. His palms drift up and down her arms and he kisses her long and slow and she follows.

He finds his words again, then. Gives her a guided tour of her own body the way he sees it. And every which way she moves she finds him there. His hands, his tongue, his breath, his words.

"Want you," she manages that much. Manages to get the words out. One at a time with who knows how much space between them, but she says it again. Almost a sentence this time and she sinks her teeth into his neck like she's proud.

"Want you. Want you," he echoes. He eases on to his side and trips his fingers here and there over skin and satin and lace. There's something about it. The contrast. The hide and seek. Teeth nipping her through the fabric, lips hot against her skin.

There's something about his fingers pressing between her legs. Scorching hot and wet through the bit of satin and the contrast with his palm anchored against her bare skin, cooler. Smooth and pale and thrumming against his.

There's something about the way it makes her move against him, languid and frantic at the same time. A slow, steady build and then all of a sudden her heels are digging into the bed and she's coming on a long, torturous moan.

It catches him off guard. He's barely touched her. It catches him off guard, but he runs with it. Nips and sucks at her breasts and murmurs encouragement into the spaces between her ribs. Finds the sweet, perfect arc of her lower back with his free hand and holds her up. Presses his palm down hard against the flat of her pubic bone and sweeps his fingers over her in wide, methodical circles.

It must have caught her off guard, too, because she's annoyed. He hides a grin against her neck. She's annoyed and that usually works out _really _well for him.

Tonight is no exception. After a few experimental moves that are entirely devoid of her usual grace, she's kneeling over him. Lifting her hips just out of reach as his own rise up again and again without his say so.

She lets him struggle a minute. Seems to find _something_ funny and if he could make any two parts of his body work together right now, he'd show her.

She lets him struggle, then presses her thighs forward. Arches her back and his hands get their act together at last. He wraps his fingers around her ribs and his thumbs sweep in long arcs, both of them just barely brushing over her nipples. And then he has her. Just for second he has her. She stills and the breath stutters out of her. His hips rise up and slot perfectly between hers and a stream of inarticulate noises tangles up between them.

But it doesn't last, because she's _annoyed_ and he's good with that. He has no problem at all with that. Her hands land on either side of his waist and she holds him still. Pins him to the bed with a glare and he briefly shows her his palms.

When she's sure he's not going anywhere—that he's watching—she drags her fingers from his hips to her own, but he stops her when she hooks her thumbs over the stretch of lace at each hip.

He's not sure where he finds the will or energy or memory of how his hands actually work, but his fingers seem to be locking around her wrists and he's half sitting up to kiss her. To catch her earlobe between his teeth and whisper, "Mmmm. No. Beckett, no. Leave them."

She surprises him with a sweet, lingering kiss and laughter in his ear. Makes up for it half a second later with one vicious circle of her hips.

"Say 'please,' Castle."

She's towering over him. A hundred feet tall and so fucking gorgeous. She's got one palm flattened in the dead center of his chest and the other between her legs. Her fingers hook around the fabric and her thumb brushes over her clit.

"Castle." Her voice is sharp. Demanding.

And he'd say anything—_anything_—if she'd just give him back one breath.

"Please." Where it comes from, he has no idea, but it's not exactly a pressing concern.

She sinks down over him before it's half out of his mouth. Around him in an instant and she's moving. She's moving like she's had this battle plan in her back pocket for a while and how the hell does she do this? How the hell can she move and breathe and issue instructions when he is an incoherent, erratic mess beneath her.

He doesn't know how long it lasts. Long enough he hopes. He supposes. Because she's draped all over him now and there are slow kisses and his body pressing against hers here and there and wherever and then she's sliding off him to rest against his side and he misses her already.

She shivers and he manages to reach behind him and snag the duvet with clumsy, sated fingers. He inches closer to her and hauls it over them both. Tucks it beneath her body and wraps them up tight.

* * *

She drifts off. She must, at least for a while. It's not like her, but it's been a hell of a day.

She'll kill him later. _Later._

He's twined around her and she can't really move, pinned between his body and the heavy weight of the blanket. It should bother her. Usually it would, but right now it feels like just what she needs. What they both need.

He's not asleep. Not really, but his eyes are half closed and his breath is deep and steady.

She tells him she loves him and his eyes flicker open and he smiles. He always smiles like he's just won something. Like it's a surprise.

He kisses her and inches backward. "Mmm. Sorry. Smothering you?"

She holds him still a minute. Tightens her arm around his waist and presses close. Presses the length of her body against his and shivers as the duvet slips from under her hip and the cool air rushes over her skin. "M'okay. But cold."

She rolls away from him and points herself at the closet, but he's in her path. Staggering a little but on his feet and pointedly keeping his body between her and her destination.

"Clothes?" He says it brightly. Too brightly. "What can I get for you?"

She slaps her hand on his shoulder and moves to step around him and there he is again. Between her and the closet. Another step. Another adjustment on his part.

She stops. Pins him to the spot with a glare. "Castle."

"Kate?" His voice is steady enough but the rising inflection ruins it. Makes it into a desperate question.

Oh, she's going to enjoy this. Whatever this is, she's going to enjoy it.

"If I went into the closet right now . . ." She trails her fingernails down his chest. Pointedly grazes a nipple and he shudders. Definitely going to enjoy this. "What would I find?"

"Uh. . . . Clothes. Shoes . . ." His hand twitches toward hers, but he senses at the last minute that it's a mistake to give her something to hang on to. "Those Babylon 5 collectibles I haven't found shelf space for . . ."

"Castle."

"They wouldn't make just one!" He blurts it out and tries to backpedal, but she grabs his hips and her fingers are like iron.

"How many?" She steps close and hisses it. "How many do I have to burn?"

"A hundred. It's the smallest lot they'd do. But there's only one here. In there." He gestures toward the closet.

He's miserable. He sounds so miserable that she almost feels sorry for him. Almost.

She lets go of his hips and stalks over to the closet. It's all the way at the back and she hauls it out. A life-sized Nikki Heat standee.

The body is the familiar black silhouette. The strategically placed gun. But there's light falling on her head and shoulders and it's her. Just enough detail that it's obviously her.

"I'm sorry, Kate." He's not looking at her. He's just standing where she left him, looking utterly defeated. "I didn't think how it would look with the door just standing open . . . I mean, you knew I was going to be there. At your apartment. And I didn't think . . ."

She laughs and his head snaps up. She reaches her arms out and they crash together. She laughs and he's almost there but not quite so she kisses him. Kisses him all over his face, his neck, his shoulders until he's laughing, too.

"Another story for the grandkids, Castle," she presses her palm over his heart to feel it stutter. "About the time I kicked the door in and set myself on fire."

She kisses him one more time, then pulls away. She's shivering and so is he. She ducks past Nikki—past herself—and into the closet. Comes out with an armload of assorted clothing.

She throws half of it at him and makes her way over to the bathroom. Pauses in the doorway and looks him over.

He's standing there with a pair of sweats and a t-shirt spilling from his arms, just watching her. His face is a heartbreaking mixture of remorse and relief and something else. Plotting. He's plotting. He's actually spinning the story in his mind.

"Castle!" She waits for him to snap out of it. Waits for him to look at her. Lays heavy emphasis on each word. "We are not telling this story. Any of this story. To anyone. Ever."

He grins. He grins all over. "Beckett, your apartment was on _fire_. We've gotta tell them _something_."

"Shut up. You just shut up and let me worry about that." She closes the door on him, but she can still hear him laughing. Oh, _now_ he's laughing.

She yanks it back open and glares through the crack. "I assume you have a _real_ present for me?"

His smile fades and her heart drops to her toes. _Shit. _What if it's back at her place? What if it's ruined?

But he's nodding. He's not smiling anymore but he's nodding.

"Yeah." He makes a nervous gesture at her. "Go ahead. Go ahead. I'll get it."

* * *

He's not really sure how to do this. It was supposed to go differently. He was supposed to have it to hide behind. A joke. Something silly. The big reveal and her over the top indignation and then this. They were both supposed to have it to hide behind, but now there's just this.

He sits on the bed cross-legged. Wonders if that's right. Wonders if maybe they should be in the living room. Wine and a fire burning and a blanket shared between them, but he worries that it's all too much already.

They're still so new at this. They've been doing it for years. Together for years in their own way, but _this_ is still new and he is crazily, stupidly nervous. He stays on the bed and waits for her, the little box balanced on his thigh.

He thinks it's right. He thinks the present is right and it was _not_ easy. She threw him for a loop with the not-so-subtle hint about jewelry and his mind went all sorts of places it shouldn't and then came screaming back, because . . . _No. _No.

She told him the story a long time ago. He can't even remember when. A stakeout maybe? Or some long night poring over a boring stack of something or other on one of those cases where a break just wouldn't come. She told him a long time ago.

It was her first Christmas. Kate's, though she can't have remembered it. Barely a month old and her parents were still struggling with law school debt and life in New York with a new baby. Jim had taken on a second job for the season, helping out some scummy TV personal injury lawyer. Paperwork and cash under the table to try to make ends meet for the holidays.

They'd taken her to see the big tree at Rockefeller Center. Silly with a two-week old, but the day had been warm, and it was rare for them both to have a little free time.

The cops had said it was probably someone they knew. Only their bedroom was tossed, and they'd gone straight for the little roll of cash in one of Jim's shirt pockets. Right for the row of nails in the back of the closet where Johanna had hung her few pieces of jewelry. None of it valuable. None of it worth much to anyone who wasn't her.

The bathroom door opens and he startles. Comes back to the moment and remembers he's nervous. He's _so_ nervous.

She's in his clothes. She has things here, but she must've grabbed whatever was at hand. The t-shirt hangs past her fingertips and she's rolled the pant legs into wide, ridiculous cuffs that trail along the floor as she makes her way to the bed.

She's devastating and it's doing nothing for his nerves.

It's not doing anything for hers, either. He can tell by the way she clambers on to the bed and makes a show of getting settled. Pulls a pillow on to her lap and looks up at him with a shy smile.

He covers the box with his hand and leans in to kiss her and that makes it better somehow. He's still nervous. He's shaking. But it's better.

He wraps his hand around the box. Makes a move toward her, then stops. Cradles it protectively against his chest and the words come spilling out before he can stop them.

"It's a ring."

They look at each other in horror. In absolute horror.

"No!" He says quickly. He is definitely prepared to save her the trouble of killing him at this point. He's happy to do it for her. He's prepared to take requests. "I mean, yes. It's a ring. But it's not a . . . _ring_."

She nods silently and somehow that calms him. She's relieved but not relieved. Disappointed? A little disappointed, but not really disappointed and that's perfect. That's just perfect.

He reaches for her hand and sets the box on her palm. Whispers a kiss over her cheek and breathes the words against her ear, "Happy birthday, Kate."

She grins and tightens her fingers around it. She wriggles a little to get comfortable and thumbs open the lid.

It's not what she expects. She has no idea what she expected, but this isn't it and she can't think what to say.

It's a silvery band—white gold, she thinks, from the weight of it—narrow underneath and widening to a flat shield. The top is a deep sapphire flanked by numbers, 19 on the left, 69 on the right. And on the surface, the school's initials and crest, just slightly raised.

"I hope it's ok," he says when she doesn't say anything. "I tried to find a real one, but the school shut down a long time ago, so I had it made. Your dad gave me the inscription. For the inside. And I thought . . . I added something. I hope it's ok."

She looks up at him and back down. Peers inside and the light just catches the engraving. Her mother's initials and her graduation date. _6-2-1969._ Her initials and the date. _11-17-2012. _

"You said jewelry and I thought . . . I thought about a lot of things." She still hasn't said anything and he's babbling now. He's officially babbling, but he just can't stand the silence. "But I wanted it to be something you could wear all the time. You know, if you want to. And with your job . . . I thought earrings or a bracelet wouldn't work. And I thought this . . ."

He stops. Suddenly realizes that it's big. What he was about to say. It's a big fucking assumption and he feels like an ass. He's not sure of anything.

She pulls the ring from the box with shaking fingers and closes it tight—_tight_—in her fist. She reaches for him with her free hand. Hooks her arm around his neck and pulls him to her with a fierce whisper and a fiercer kiss. "Thank you. Oh, Castle, thank you."

He's weak with relief. Kisses her hair and blinks hard. Tries to make words come, but there all gone. Suddenly they're all gone.

She remembers something. Something occurs to her and she draws in an excited breath. _It's here. _Thank god it's here and not back at her place.

She breaks away from him and flops on her stomach. Shimmies for the nightstand and roots around in the drawer. She sits up and crawls toward him. Kneels up in front of him and drapes it across both their knees.

Her hands are shaking and she can't work the clasp. "Help me! Help me, Castle."

She gives him an irritated nudge and it brings him back to life. He takes the chain from her hands and somehow fumbles the clasp open. She takes it back from him and threads the chain through the ring.

She holds it up to the light and the two rings chime together. Her breath catches on her ribs and a couple of tears slip down her cheeks. She can't find her voice so she kisses him again. Grabs his hand and hooks the chain over his fingers as she turns her back to him.

He slides her hair to one side and drops his lips to the skin of her neck. Then the links are slipping over her collar bones and he's tugging the clasp to make sure it'll hold against the new weight. They chime again, the two rings, and come to rest against her and it's beautiful and he thinks it's right.

It feels right as he slips his arms around her waist and holds her.

She brings her hand up behind her. Winds her arm around his neck. She kisses his cheek and whispers another thank you and she thinks so, too.

It feels right.


End file.
